


Natura Versus Nurtura

by AlmesivaMoonshadow



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 3
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Amorality, Animal Abuse, Canonical Child Abuse, Crimes & Criminals, Daddy Issues, Drug Abuse, Dysfunctional Family, Father/Son Incest, Hate Crimes, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Other, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Racism, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prostitution, Psychological Torture, Rape, Torture, Xenophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-07-12 14:13:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7108513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlmesivaMoonshadow/pseuds/AlmesivaMoonshadow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of course, it was much easier to simply claim that one was a colossal piece of shit right from the start – but, despite of his deeply, disturbingly Nihilistic tendencies, Hoyt Volker believed men to start out as undeveloped Tabula Rasas. Empty slates. Undecorated pieces of paper. Something one can mold, condition and control to his personal tastes from an early age if he only possesses the right set of skills and the patience required to set the project into motion. But, the one who scribbled him down as an individual truly had a shaky set of fingers, a bad handwriting and a very low capacity when it comes to prose. His ‘da wasn’t a very talented author of minds, souls and spirits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Natura Versus Nurtura

 

 

Oh, daddy, daddy, daddy.

A man who's funeral he never attended.

Who's casket he's never seen despite of putting him there.

Thing was – he was born at the wrong time, at the wrong place.

To the wrongest of fathers, most obviously – what a cruel twist of fate.

The firmest of all fathers, certainly - no doubt, the most demanding one too.

A mockery of heaven from above – if a thing such as god or providence existed, even.

 

 

 

 

Hoyt’s hired tutors often claimed there was – a private echelon of strict religiously fanatical teachers specially brought in by papa-dearest as norm, routine and custom demanded with all privileged, well-off younglings of his own age, bought, silenced and bribed by drug-money, mining-exploitation, prostitution rings and blood-diamonds visiting him daily, in secrecy, behind closed doors, in the sour companionship of chalkboards, whips, scraped knees, immaculate uniforms and notebooks – a child of colored heritage couldn’t attend schools with all the creamy, washed-out wealthy whites of Johannesburg no matter who their parent was – and Cobus’ own paleness couldn’t save his case. Couldn’t remedy his position. Couldn’t erase the color of his skin. The Volkers were always seamlessly, perfectly Dutch. Ever since the beginning. Easily three-hundred years back. A unbroken line of proud, sheer ethical purity. So goddamn white, one could spot the blue popping of veins on their foreheads when they were angry or otherwise infuriated. One milky, blue-eyed, blonde father birthing a brood of milky, blue-eyed, blonde sons and daughters. All the Hanses, Helgas and Hildegards an African colony needed to call itself conquered, cleared and _“civilized”_ – and then there was Hoyt. No Aryan poster-child, obviously - listened to Wagner in a set of desperate, dashed hopes that the victorious chorus, the loud instruments and the bombastic, robust Hitlerian march would miraculously, through the accident of some melodic spell rub him cleaner the a winged, armored Nordic Valkyrie one day before he reaches adulthood.

 

 

He found the curious original recording in Pa's vast collection.

 

 

Sadly, operatic merriments were as close to real life magic as he ever got.

 

 

 

Of course Cobus was a hardened, cold hypocrite when he fucked his poor, powder-bedazzled, addicted mother – openly tottering the banner of Apartheid in one hand like the pro-activist nationalistic bastard that he was and groping colored prostitutes, black maids and frightened worker housewives with another when no-one was looking. It was his right, he smugly, arrogantly claimed. The right of his blood. All these people were his. His servants. His knaves. His serfs. His objects. His belongings. Who had the guts to call out one the biggest, richest entrepreneurs of up-town Joburg and tell him how to live his motherfucking life lest he land with a bullet in his head somewhere in a darkened, shady slum after hours? His self-imposed authority went so far that he erased her real name from commonplace, everyday usage amongst the help – the old, Colombian one. From way back home. The one she was born with. She was Lidewij from now on (or anything he currently pleased) if he had any say in the matter – and hell knows he did. He preferred it more. Sounded more European. Tame. Homely. More to his personal tastes. Hoyt might have been a brown little squid but his name, likewise, was Dutch because Cobus didn’t need extra reminders that his one and only son, albeit a bastard who was only barely hanging unto the family name, was a mixture of mud.

 

 

 

 

_-“I’ll have none of that mulatto bullshit around here! You hear me, boy!? Leave that “Maria Alejandra” crap back in South America, where it belongs! The streets are getting to you, Hoyt! The bad company you’re in too! It’s showing! It’s reeking on you, like a disease! If you’re so keen on getting involved with the coloreds, so be it! But, don’t come knocking on my door! You understand me!?”-_

 

 

 

Hoyt was barely twelve when Cobus started reciting the _“me or them”_ mantra, Cohiba in hand, the lighter blazing red, eyes green as venom, the only trait the boy inherited from the bloodless, waxen, ghostly Dutchman who could have been called rather handsome with his sharp features, prominent nose, slender limbs, bony face and high cheekbones if it wasn’t for the behavior patterns that marred his visage past the point of comeliness – the segregationist regime in it’s bloom – it was somewhat scandalous for a man of Mr. Volker’s standing and economical status to be letting a half-breed mutt run willy-nilly around his estate, openly referred to as _“the Boss’ son”_ despite of all these angry, two-faced, bitter white men having the tendency of fucking what they were politically combating out on the streets at leisure _-_ and of course, the mother was often nowhere in sight. A whore. A prostitute. A dancer-girl. A cheap joint, gambler escort-wench. A stripper, in her younger, better, more flattering days. An imported piece of meat. Dark, olive-skinned, sun-kissed. An entertainer for the burly, tired, overworked miners. Now, an all-time exclusive for the upper-command Big-man himself. Hoyt believed his mother eerily, strangely beautiful, even now, coke-drenched, fucked-up, beaten, unresponsive, distant, torn, skinny, starved and drugged up as she was.

 

 

 

The very first time he accidentally stumbled upon her as a small child, after the one of the infamous sessions with Cobus Volker, CEO of an exploiting, growing enterprise, smuggling diamonds from half of the African continent to the highest bidder, snoring naked, knocked out, bleeding, bruised and drunk out of her mind, the rouge of her swollen mouth smeared, stains of her watered down mascara running dow her cheeks, her fishnets torn, the red lights of her room flickering through a sickly, feverish sort of crimson in a womb-like, run-down, derelict room riddled with used-up makeup, the odor of perfume and sweat, broken mirrors, discarded pieces of lingerie, cum-stains and emptied beer-bottles, he immediately knew what he wanted to do in life when he grew up. The son of a whore turned whore-mongerer. The irony of all ironies. There was something haunting about the way she slept. Macabre. Half human-artwork, half a breathing, living carcass. Few understood his vision then – few understood it today. He wanted to share it with the world. Humanity, as it truly was. Sacks of fuckable meat. Warm. Diseased. Rotting. Disposable. Meaningless. Interchangeable.

 

 

 

_-“If you were born a girl, you’d be just like her, you know? A goddamn block-hooker! Maybe, just maybe – you’d be worth more to Papa then. Like this? Hardly a dime. You’d do better if you rolled your sleeves up and went with the miners. Put on some weight! Develop a muscle or two! Down into the earth. With all the blacks and the coloreds!”-_

 

 

 

A few years passed and papa did indeed, go down into the earth, Hoyt lounging at him with his own pick-axe when the river in his head boiled and overflowed, a fight next to an open mine elevator after one shot of Cognac too many and more mutual insults then they could count, aged fifteen – a numb, heavy piece of iron in Mr. Volker’s broken, mangled skull as his body grew limp after an attempt to use the boy in place of a whore, collapsing and colliding with the boy’s sharp push down below, into the inviting darkness after-hours, when all the Somalian workers had departed to their separate barracks, leaving only barking, howling guard dogs, armed, sleepy watchmen and bribed Zimbabwean buccaneers the Boss’ son could easily get past with the right amount of paper bills, with Cobus still managing to mutter semi-coherent, hissing curses and he stumbled down the rabbit hole followed by a swallowed, distorted thud that could not be heard, spewing and spitting every swear word in the Dictionary of Afrikaans – leaving Junior to celebrate with a lit Cohiba he pulled out of his pocket – a bad, very dear habit he picked up from the old rascal, lighting the tobacco, throwing his head back triumphantly, smiling and inhaling next to the shaft – crescent moon was out, hovering above the pitch, twinkling skyline of Johannesburg – the metropolis of the ill, mad and downtrodden – the towering heavenly satellite scarlet like blood, standing as witness to a murder most foul as they say – how fitting – in an evening as good as any. The best of all nights. End of an era. Sure, this wasn’t the first attempt at rape, but it was all he needed. He wanted a concrete, precise excuse tonight, to kill or not to kill – and he got it. Along with all the others he collected overtime. Fuck knows there was plenty of those.

 

 

 

Momma was long-since dead.

Drugs, illness, alcoholism, depression, self-harm.

Part of him was glad she was gone – out of her misery.

No prostitute remained alive for long – and Hoyt never stayed.

Never stayed for his own Papa’s funeral – like in the goddamn Mafia.

The prime culprit and arranger of a murder beamingly standing in the first rows.

Wearing the shades of grief, disaster and sorrow like an expertly-built up facade.

Oh no, a stormy morning dawned over South Africa and he was already gone.

The streets swallowing him up – the skinny, bony little mixed boy.

He never packed or took a single thing out his Pa’s mansion.

Nothing but a golden box of imported Cuban cigarettes.

The shady corner-stones of old Joburg already abuzz.

Eyes pinned on the murder of Cobus Volker.

 

 

 

 

They suspected the immigrant workers, the blacks unsatisfied with cruel, harsh work conditions, his own business rivals, people he burrowed money from, the rich, dispossessed clientèle – nobody suspected that one, unnamed, snot-nosed, crooked bastard he had running around the estate, playing with his Pa's old, unloaded guns and skinning dogs alive to see what their flesh was made of in a sheer mimicry of the burden flesh, scars, bruises and belt marks inflicted upon him by the Master of the house himself, may God rest his soul – the one with an angry stare, furrowed eye-brows and deep, sleepless eye-bags – that kid was gone – erased – forgotten – the alleyways raised him and once he stepped off the shores of Madagascar, towards the South Pacific, Australia, Tasmania and unto the Rook Archipelago, he never looked back as he found himself hellbent on exterminating the colored natives. Another point of irony. The colored against the colored. He turned whiter then daddy, mentality-wise. He could only grin at himself. How similar they became. His speeches to his men proof of that. Solid testament. Thirty years back, Cobus held a courtly narration to his hirelings, talking about family, work ethics, three rules they had to follows and how his own father was a respect individual with a strong dedication to his cause. 

 

 

 

Today, Hoyt Volker was doing the same.

 

 

 

 

_-“To that wonderful man, the company was God!”-_

 

 

 

Special emphasis on the word _“wonderful”_ and _“God”._

Both a sweet lie - an empty term and a non-existent entity.

As the prisoner made example of in the heat-cage shrieked in desperation.

Hoyt turning down-casting his gaze momentarily, a flash of his own screams coming to mind.

He recovered almost instantly, with a smile ever-so dazzling, ever-so falsely charming.

Part of him convincing himself that it was part of the show - another knowing better.

The match in his hand, dancing so similarly to the match that lit his cigar.

All those years ago, when Papa stumbled down a mine-shaft.

And Boom – the cave was ablaze - smoky, cackling, heated.

All Hoyt saw in the fire was a little boy with a knife.

Running down the streets, nightfall chasing him.

The walls slowly closing in around him.

The twilight of Africa, saccharine.

Red, like the tears of the sun.

 

 

 

_-"I bring that same reverence to my humble business here - and I expect all of you to do the same!"-_

 

 

 

 

He continued firmly, unflinchingly - like a well-oiled machine.

Fuck knows he very much was at this point.

If anything inside was ever human - it was long-since replaced by iron and steel.


End file.
